My secrets are the streets of Totnes, brushing the ash to chalk
like a Pierrot blue. According to my fame the fire begins to
devour my head. The tree means a stolen playground taxied
by light, a twin obstacle pendulum switching sadly to resolve
impulse crammed into a doppelgänger. Fire breathes vilified
formations, scattering the juddering scant auto-cascade of
offended lightning to where wi-fi is literally telepathy. I
could kill for a method, a trickle-swoon under the ear,
I tag the ultimate chiasmus of ahuman lyric and lyrical
asubjectivity and wave the khora-thrash between. Pith erupts
through purple custard, gurgled discs, high-gloss cerebral
language beaten down into a green cadence that engulfs
the beginning of the ages of contraction back to their original
glut. For we, the time of things, know no time, a pink tube
of email paint goes full thorax towards the primal pain of
worthlessness which is as-beautiful. It flew like a tricorn
no-show extinction of birth bloodless and incendiary
and trebled down, reproducing this cut thrill set when
we are all a bit less crazy. Blink yellows out of the soundless
air. What irreversibly lines up nodding under the dying snow
comes sun-bonded to the anorexic trace gone hiding near
the spin-away exposé of a still just about moral hazard,
sundered hopelessly into the outsider consultation waged
into the bulk trouble fb page where there was the first social
footnote I’ve ever seen. And then at 4.30 pm we passed out.